Dublin

July 26, 2017

Rain on a Wednesday morning. On the two days we didn’t have rain, with me running around bareheaded, I got a sunburn unlike any other–not visibly red, but a rather handsome ruddy tan, scalp, nose, forehead and cheeks nevertheless burned and seared and would not stop. “Sun poisoning,” suggested my nurse sister. At Parke’s Castle I literally had to run from shade to shade, having neglected to bring a hat. At least it was a new sensation. Not entirely past, I discovered as I shaved this morning.

County Sligo was our study yesterday, driven about by Mr. Rooney the eager taxi man, to Drumcliffe and Mullaghmore and Glencar, of lake and falling water, and finally to Parke’s Castle, which I hate because of its history, and because it is boring to go there. But I was reminded there of one of my early attachments to Sligo, the fact that on Church Island stood the stronghold of the O’Cuinans, the hereditary bards of the O’Rourkes– and they are the Keenans and they we are what is left of them. I am what is left of them. The last poet. I wanted to blab out all the history and legend I know of the places, building like flood behind a dam, but was reluctant to usurp our kindly guide We have been eating excellently, and finished off with fine Italian in a place now called “Italian Lane.” Will try to reverse the effects of that with a vodka fast in Dublin.

Blue Raincoat is doing its Yeats play series, and of all the things on this planet which I want to see, that stands near–or at– the top, and all I can do is counsel myself to prepare for the next season, as all the ways I could think of to take advantage would be impossible to manage now. The serious-looking Yeats School students throng–or rather pepper– the cafés.  Poor sad Sligo is each time diminished from his liveliness of the time before. David Roche is gone.

L& J had a money crisis. I’ve learned to install many redundant systems to head off such crises, but I suppose I learned to do so by having them. Even a moment’s doubt about finances or lodging can destroy a day abroad. We split up today, they heading for Derry, me for Dublin. I’m not traveling well this time. I wanted to plop down somewhere and soak that one place in. I have not been able to get my energy levels up, and I must see to that, as well as renew about half a dozen prescriptions, when I get home.  I instinctively blame some disorder, but maybe it’s just age. I don’t notice when I travel alone, for then I pick my own pace. Traveling at the rate of a normal person exposes it.

The irony of Dublin is that there’s nothing playing at the Abbey.

Yesterday was mother’s birthday. I wish we could have brought her to Ireland. I came here at first because of her.

What is Sligo to me? I fantasy based on the conviction that the life of my soul–as far back as I can reach it–began along the shores of Lough Gill.

2:30: Checked in to the Clarence, where I will stay four lovely nights. The lobby looks the same as it did when I checked in 37 years ago, where they took a look at my backpack and said, “I’m afraid we’re a little above you, lad,” but took pity on my obvious tourist panic and found me a squalid room in the basement, near the food storage areas. Why my Am Ex didn’t spell equality to them I don’t know. I’ve been “upgraded” to a suite, perhaps in memory of that long ago affront– a suite with windows opening on the Liffey. It has a bidet.  It is the best accommodation I have ever had. I am happy.

Walked around Temple Bar, three minutes in full light, and my Sun Poisoning is ablaze again. Can hardly stand it, though I’ve been indoors for an hour. Who ever heard of this? Bought theater tickets for the next two nights.

9:30. Crossed the street to see Communion Suit at the New Theater, adapted from the work of Brendan Behan. It was very thin material put across by presentation bordering on frenzy. Which is not to say it wasn’t amusing in its way, and that I didn’t think about it leaving the theater, heading to the Song 66 (or something) a Gin Bar on Parliament which used to be something else, where handsome blond Gary tried to seduce me, with such extravagance I guessed he must be a whore, or a mugger, and it takes real blatancy for me to “get it.” I regret not being able to take a pass from a handsome young man at face value any more. I regret, more deeply, that the Irish theater I have seen this season has been experimental in unnecessary and I-thought-we-were-all-through-with-that ways. Gulls float on the Liffey. It is very late and there is still light in the sky.